Part 36 (1/2)

”Good night!” says I. ”Pinched on the high seas!”

I didn't waste much time except to throw on a few clothes; but, at that, I finds Auntie scrabblin' out ahead of me and Captain Killam already on deck. She's a picturesque old girl, Auntie, in a lavender and white kimono and a boudoir cap to match; and Rupert, in blue trousers and a pajama top, hardly looks like a triple-plated hero.

”Nabbed!” gasps Rupert, starin' over the rail, at a gray gunboat that's just roundin' in towards us. It's the _Petrel_, sure enough.

”The idea!” says Auntie. ”They were shooting at us, too, weren't they?

Of all things!”

Then up pads Old Hickory in a low-necked silk dressin'-gown, with his gray hair all rumpled and a heavy crop of white stubble on his solid set jaws.

”Huh!” says he, takin' a glance at the _Petrel_.

That's about all there is to be said, too. For it was odd how little any of us felt like bein' chatty. We just stood around quiet and watched the businesslike motions on the _Petrel_ as she stops about a block off and proceeds to drop a boat into the water.

Projectin' prominent from one of her steel bay windows is a wicked-lookin' gun about the size of a young water main, and behind it a lot of jackies squintin' at us earnest. And you know how still it seems on a boat when the engines quit. I almost jumps when someone whispers in my ear. It's Vee.

”Now I hope Auntie's satisfied,” says she.

”There's no tellin' about her,” says I.

Anyway, she wasn't fannin' herself, or sniffin' smellin' salts. I'd noticed her hail a deck steward, and the next I knew she was spoonin'

away at half a grapefruit, as calm as you please. Mr. Ellins is indulgin' in a dry smoke. Only Mrs. Mumford, when she finally appears, does justice to the situation. She rolls her eyes, breathes hard, and clutches her crochet bag desperate.

The _Petrel_ people were takin' their time about things. After they got the boat in they had to let down some side stairs, and then the sailors waited with their oars ready until an officer in a fresh laundered white uniform gets in and gives the signal to shove off. Our Captain has the companionway stairs rigged, too, and there ain't a word pa.s.sed until the naval gent comes aboard. He's rather a youngish party, with a round, good-natured face, and he seems kind of amused as he sizes up our bunch in their early mornin' costumes.

”Pardon me,” says he, touchin' his cap, ”but who is in charge of this yacht?”

”I suppose I am,” says Old Hickory.

”Not a bit more than I,” puts in Auntie. ”And I want to tell you right now, young man, that I consider your action in shooting off those guns at us was--”

”I presume you recognize the United States Navy, madam?” breaks in the officer.

”Not necessarily,” snaps Auntie. ”I don't in the least see why we should, I'm sure.”

”Certainly we do,” corrects Old Hickory. ”But, as Mrs. Hemmingway observes, we dislike to be shot at.”

”Even though you couldn't hit us,” adds Auntie.

The officer grins.

”Oh, our gunners aren't as bad as that,” says he. ”We were merely shooting across your bows, you know. I am Lieutenant Commander Faulhaber, and it is part of my duty to overhaul and inspect any suspicious acting craft.”

”Why didn't you do it last night, then?” demands Auntie.

”Because we blew out a cylinder gasket,” says he. ”The _Petrel_ isn't a new boat, by any means, and hardly in first-cla.s.s shape. But we managed to patch her up, you see.”

”Humph!” says Auntie.